Hotel Room
by Tendo Rei
Summary: Carl Hill has gone to visit an old friend in Zurich...


Hotel Room

_Disclaimer: I don't own Reanimator, and I'm getting tired of making new disclaimers. _

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Carl Hill buttoned up his shirt like he was furious with it, snapping buttons and swearing every so often. The plane didn't leave for another hour or so, but he didn't want to take chances. Downtown Zürich was insane this time of day; he'd be surprised if he could even get a cab. 

He remembered something suddenly and sprinted for his night bag; withdrawing a small bottle of Scope he dashed to the bathroom for a quick rinse and spit. While he swished it around, he examined the bags under his eyes morosely; jet lag had not been kind to him. He heard a groan and gave it no more than a glance; the other occupant of the bed no longer interested him.

He thought back to what had drawn him here: his comrade-in-name-only Gruber had invited him, guaranteeing exciting developments and the promise of work. This hadn't been the first time Hans had been a letdown. Travel had been murder, Carl just wasn't a citizen of the world, and talking to Gruber didn't alleviate anything. Just sitting in that laboratory talking about the location of the so-called soul was nothing short of ridiculous. The man suffered from a superiority complex; he made speeches daily about "the great work" and ending death.

It put him to mind of their school years together.

Another groan from the bed, and Carl walked out of the bathroom a little calmer, fastening his cufflinks. Packing wasn't so important. He just wanted to be sure his notes were in order.

True, Gruber was of a brilliant sort; it was just that he got his idealism in the mix as well. Him, and that dark little toady. Carl wondered how he could manage with just one lab assistant. Surely his research wasn't so groundbreaking he had to worry about espionage from neighboring scientists. The only thing he should've worried about was the man he invited in so freely, so trustingly; blindly faithful in his only "friend" in school.

He flicked through papers, reordering some and crumpling others up. In the end, Gruber's intelligence had been so mixed with his eccentricities that Carl couldn't separate theory from delusion. He had decided to just record it all, wait a sensible amount of time, and edit to his liking. It was a good thing he had near-eidetic memory. Though it had been of little help in school, where Hans had been so favored by each professor you'd think the sun shone from his every orifice.

But he wasn't bitter.

After all, he was mildly respected in the scientific community in one of the best seats in New England, and Gruber was off to exotic locations to explore his sanity with the little grease monkey in tow. He didn't envy Gruber. Just his mind.

With the papers now banished to their folio, he resumed the daunting task of getting dressed; finding a sock behind the 14"screen TV and his tie hung neatly on the doorknob like some obscene frat custom.

He hadn't set out to humiliate Gruber, but the man practically begged for it. He trusted people who hated him for what he was, oblivious to their envy and contempt. Gruber had barely peeked from a medical omnibus when Carl had come home to their shared house one night trailing blood, merely stating that an ice pack would help the swelling. _The swelling?_ My god, the man was a _joke_.

He fished his wristwatch out from the deepest reaches of the couch, and with that he was done. He would leave this country and the bitter taste it left in his mouth for good, leave all that Gruber was behind him.

He stopped for a while, resting his hand on the back of a settee. Perhaps it really was jealousy that drove him on; teachers since the dawn of time had called him gifted but creatively lacking, a slug, a dud. He would serve a specific purpose, but he would make no innovations. Hans had been innovative, imaginative. A genius. Who would notice a dim bulb like Carl with Hans's brilliance so close by?

He smacked the surface, sending up a small cloud of dust. Well, what did they know? A genius would rather spend his days in squalor, in seclusion? No, a genius would go back to the United States in full glory, he would work on his theorem until it had the polished look of a true intellectual and stood no chance of being rejected like his ill-fated master's thesis.

Gruber would stay and perhaps die here, in the mysterious lands that he so loved. Let him fade among his beakers and flasks. Carl Hill had a future.

His gaze flicked once more to the bed, where the head of black hair rolled over and rubbed its bleary eyes.

"Your things are on the dresser." He said a tad more loud than necessary, smiling as the figure started.

"I left your other clothes in the bathroom, the room is still rented until 12:00. I suggest you make use of the facilities. Or don't." He picked up his bag and started for the door, the bellhop would be up soon for the suitcase.

He stopped at the door, admiring his improved countenance in the courtesy mirror.

"By the way," he called over his shoulder "should the impulse arise to tell Gruber, the police, anyone that this has happened, I suggest you ignore it." Without turning to see what effect his words had, he swung open the door and stepped through, whistling. He had a plane to catch.

On the bed, the young man blinked owlishly and put on his thick black-framed glasses, running a hand through his hair and staring out the door through which Hill had gone only a moment before.

* * *

_Author's note: I'm terribly, terribly wicked, aren't I? This idea arose when I was writing another story, like these things often do. To answer the obvious, yes, that was Herbert in the bed. I wanted to do a Hill-centric story, he's just so deliciously __**evil**_


End file.
